


Language Lessons, 12: triste comme un bonnet de nuit (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [12]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-27
Updated: 2005-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 12: triste comme un bonnet de nuit (1200 words)

  
  
Jack Shaftoe awoke trembling from a dream, a dream that he could not quite recall, save for the vast empty melancholy that sank through his whole body like sea-fog, dank and desolate, as though the sun had gone out and everything around him was blank and numb and unchanging; he lay still, eyes closed, casting about for the fragments of the dream, wanting to know what had brought him such grief, wanting to confront it and drive it out of his heart, his mind, his sleep; unthinkingly he reached out across the bed, but found only cool smooth threadbare sheets (looted from some Spanish miss's dowry-chest, that time off Valparaiso): and now Jack vaguely recalled half-waking as Sparrow'd slid out from beside him, leaving Jack cold and forlorn within seconds, and leaning down to whisper in his ear, something about the weather and the helm, something 'bout his darling ship -- Jack Shaftoe snorted with amusement at his own animal envy of a mere _boat_ , never mind that the _Black Pearl_ was his home now, and where his heart lived -- and some promise to return; now, as Jack lay alone in their bed, reluctant to open his eyes, he listened to the ship's voice, the sough of wind in her sails, the ruffle of water 'gainst her strong hull, the work of her timbers; smooth sailing now, and he supposed that he must've slept out the storm, accustomed now to the violence of the weather as the monsoon season's storms swirled around them, tipping and swaying the _Pearl_ as though she were a child's toy; the weather'd mellowed, for sure, and surely now Jack Sparrow would come back to him, and ... his mind caught at fragments of the nightmare, of Sparrow gone, _gone_ , and for a moment the sense of it was so real that despair welled up once more; and then, like mercy to a condemned man, came the creak of the door, the sound of wet boots on the cabin-floor, and the warmth of Sparrow's breath on Jack's face; came Sparrow's voice, all low and hoarse from hours of sea-spray and bellowed orders, saying, "What's amiss, mate? You look like a man who's lost his best treasure; **triste comme un bonnet de nuit** , as they say in France;" and Jack, basking in the sheer _relief_ of Sparrow's return -- just a dream, Jack, just a dream -- let out a gasp of surprised laughter, and opened his eyes, and said, "You _what_?" and oh, Sparrow's smile, the way he was smiling at _Jack_ , was heart-salve and remedy for every lurking melancholy; " _triste comme un bonnet de nuit_ , Mr Shaftoe," he said, "though why a night-cap should be sad's entirely beyond my comprehension -- funny lot, the French -- though it ain't much better to say 'miserable as sin', eh? Don't know 'bout you, Jack, but I never met a sin din't make me happy;" Jack, entirely at one with himself now, leaned back, stretching his arms above his head in a way that shewed the muscled curve of his shoulders to best advantage, grinned at Sparrow -- oh, Jack Sparrow, all wet and windswept and tangled and vividly alive -- and said, "oh, sin's a fine thing, Captain Sparrow, but I fear I've forgot my catechism; mayhap you'd better remind me, eh, of the _names_ and _natures_ of those wicked deadly sins, eh?" and oh Christ, the heat of Sparrow's gaze over his whole body like a hand touching him, making him stretch more, making his prick twitch and stir beneath the thin blanket, and Sparrow's grin broadened; "I'll lay you remember Lust, eh?" he said, and Jack plastered his most boyishly innocent expression over his face -- letting Jack Sparrow be his mirror, for now, though he'd practiced it oft enough in front of Sparrow's silvered glass -- and retorted, "I've no idea what you mean, Jack; Lust? 'tis all _lost_ to me;" "Oh, I'll remind you of Lust in a minute, Jack," promised Sparrow, setting one hand on the blanket where Jack's hip-bone jutted, "but there're another _six_ of 'em, you know; there's Gluttony, as when a man gorges himself on delicacies," and oh! Jack Sparrow's tongue, lapping delicately across Jack's lips (still sore from being bitten last night, by Sparrow as he'd kissed Jack fierce and long, and latterly by Jack himself as he'd fought to keep quiet and still under Jack Sparrow's determined onslaught, biting his lip as Sparrow'd pushed into him, and in, and in; the memory of it made Jack's cock fill further), and Sparrow, his mouth brushing Jack's, went on, "there's Avarice, when a man desires what his fellow has, be it --" and Jack put his hand to Sparrow's throat, to the V of tanned, sea-beaded skin that showed there, and said, "Aye, Jack, the way I desire your heart, your mind -- even, to tell you the truth, some _other_ parts of you -- for my very own;" Jack Sparrow's dark fiery eyes were half-closed, and he was leaning into Jack's touch, wordlessly encouraging Jack's hand to adventure further 'pon his corpus, and that look of his was incendiary, so that Jack could think only of fire and heat and skin on skin; he pushed himself up and began to attack the fastenings of Sparrow's clothes, and as he worked furiously at the knot of Sparrow's shirt-lace he murmured, "Wrath, Jack, that's one of 'em, eh?" and damn this knot, it wouldn't come undone; he pulled hard, and the wet cord frayed and broke, and Sparrow was hanging over him, twisting and stretching to give Jack access to every button and buckle and loop, and Jack was pretty sure that Pride was a sin, too, but what red-blooded man would not be proud to bring Sparrow to this pass, all hot breath and shivery desire and promises murmured and unspoken; Jack Sparrow sprawled across the bed, wrenching off his boots and wriggling out of his wet trews, until he was naked as Jack, naked and _hard_ for Jack, and Jack wanted to fill himself with Jack Sparrow, to consume and be consumed; he tugged at Sparrow's thighs, still clammy with cold but warming swiftly, 'til Sparrow was straddling him and his cock was nudging at Jack's mouth, o Gluttony indeed as Jack licked and sucked and let Sparrow push inside; then Sparrow was babbling, something 'bout Envy, and turning himself around (oh Christ the curve of his arse; how was a man supposed to resist the temptation to kiss, and bite, and stroke, and set his thumb just _there_ for Sparrow to rear back against?) and at last, at last; Jack Sparrow's mouth on Jack's most enthusiastickal Remnant, Jack Sparrow's long cold fingers like a sudden awakening as he slid them, two at once, into Jack's hot clenching body, Jack Sparrow's prick -- so much hotter than the rest of his body -- thrusting again into Jack's eager mouth, both of them moaning, both of them without patience, wanting this _now_ and again and again; and when Jack's climax poured out of him into Sparrow's cunning mouth, out poured melancholy and nightmare and loss, and left him pure and perfect Lust.


End file.
